Diversity statement

The inclusive music classroom

Diversity and inclusion: two concepts of great concern to the field of education. Teachers must be prepared to respond to diverse students, and make sure their classes are not accidentally excluding anyone. There is a growing awareness that it is problematic to treat all students identically.

Unfortunately, the typical school environment is not conducive to teachers treating students as individuals. The grouping by age, the fixed schedules, the straight rows of desks—even the dual meanings of the words we use, like "classes" and "grades," betray a deeply ingrained worldview in which people (students are better understood as people) can be categorized. These categories exist to reduce the complexity of the teacher's job: in theory, all a teacher must do is deal with each category, and he or she has a shortcut to dealing with all students within it. But when applied to identity classifications ("Students of Background X Need Y"), this way of thinking can reach its most damaging form. Such an approach to diversity not only (ironically) erases the diversity within each socially constructed category; in assuming that all people within a group are fundamentally similar, it is nothing short of dehumanizing.

The risk of harm is great. The Rosenthal effect shows how thin the line between "helpful" preconceptions and harmful prejudice is. This being the case, no general rules can be derived from the experiences that follow; they are simply suggestive of the diversity that exists in music education, and show the need for individual empathy in creating an inclusive classroom.

A traumatized student

I encountered one such unique individual six weeks into my second semester of student teaching, when one of our 7th grade classes was joined by a student who had just transferred to the district. A few days later, he was rushed to the hospital and received a five-day suspension for drinking alcohol in school to the point of incapacitation. This took me and my cooperating teacher completely by surprise. We knew only that he was a foster child and had had some problems at a previous home. I had spent a couple of days working with him one-on-one to catch him up with the rest of the class, and my impression was that he was quiet and bright, a fast learner. My cooperating teacher shared my impression. Clearly that picture had been incomplete.

The timing was unfortunate; we only had him for three block schedule rotations after that before in-person classes were suspended again. He spent one of those days talking with my cooperating teacher in his office while I taught, and the other talking—but mostly working—with me while my cooperating teacher taught. In short, it appears he had a history of abuse and neglect, and came from a very bad environment prior to his abrupt change of location. He got drunk, in an attempt to get high, in an attempt to alleviate symptoms of depression. He was twelve.

I never fully appreciated the meaning of "creating a safe environment" until I found myself asking a twelve-year-old about his withdrawal symptoms. I found myself in something like the role of a counselor—we talked about life goals and what it means to be a man. When I last saw him, he was at a crossroads in his life; he had the chance to make a fresh start. It is not easy to turn one's life around all in an instant, but I hope he succeeds.

Discovering acommodation

In the same student teaching placement, there was one girl who initially had a solid start on the flute, but then began to fall behind her peers. At first, she was missing notes. Then she was unable to play the right notes at the right time at all. As her struggles increased, it seemed like she didn't know the fingering for even specific notes that she had been able to remember earlier. We tried everything (we thought) to help her—but even the ultimate intervention, pulling her out of band class for one-on-one tutoring, didn't seem to help her catch up.

Then I noticed that, along with her awkward foot shuffling and moving her flute around, she often leaned forward, putting her face closer to the music stand. Could it be she was literally struggling to read the notes—not even to understand them, but just to distinguish one from the next?

Apparently I wasn't the only one who had noticed the signs of vision problems. When I asked her about it, she said it had just been decided that she should get glasses. In the meantime, I took responsibility for photocopying and enlarging the pages of her method book onto tabloid size paper. This adaptation, combined with continued extra help, started to make a real difference. She quickly relearned what she had forgotten since the start of the year, and began to catch up. By the end of our time together, she was not an outstandingly successful musician, but she was able to participate in an appreciable way.

Being the outsider

I have personal experience on the other side of the diversity question. A significant share of extant choral repertoire is directly transferred from Christian religious services. In my teens, as a homeschooler, I took high school classes in band, orchestra, music technology, and music theory, but never choir. I only asked the choral director once; while he expressed sympathy, to him it was absolutely necessary that his public school choir class should be taught Christian religious music. Hearing this as an Orthodox Jew, I determined that if choir meant singing Christian texts, then choir was closed to me.

As a college music student, more resolute, I negotiated that I would sing open vowels without consonants on the religious words (e.g, "ah-oo ey-ee" while others around me sung "agnus dei"). For the concert, thankfully not performed in a church, I went bareheaded in order not to give the appearance of a Jew singing praise to Jesus. Still, that choir was an unhappy experience, and I had no desire to pursue it past one semester.

Everyone should feel welcome in any music class. If accommodations can possibly be made, a public school teacher has the professional responsibility to make them. In my own teaching, excluding someone who would enjoy participating is not an option. The teacher must go the extra mile and make it work. End of story.